Weddings. I wish you could see the look on my face when I say the word. Two weeks from Thursday, I will be en route to San Diego to attend the wedding of my stepniece, a six foot tall professional beach volleyball player with a great tan and 3% body fat. Who is marrying an equally gorgeous, tall and tan professional beach volleyball player. I tried to play volleyball once. Last year. For a faculty event. It was indoors, of course, and we were all fully clothed. But let me just tell you...it wasn't pretty. Four minutes into a game played with my peers, I remembered why I didn't enjoy playing as a younger version of myself. Balls being spiked at my face...I don't enjoy so much. And the awkward silence that fills the seconds after you try to serve the ball and can't get it over the net...(grimmacing)...I swear you can hear crickets in the distant background. Until everyone erupts into a collective "GOOD TRY!!!" Please kill me now.
About weddings...It's not that I don't adore the thought of people getting married and living happily-ever-after. As they unpack and organize their new wedding gifts in their modern kitchen with granite countertops...in between making out, giving each other scalp massages, and flipping the TV remote back and forth between The Apprentice and Top Gear. No...I love the ceremony and happily-ever-after part. LOVE. It's the reception afterwards. Let me repeat myself with the most sour face. It's the reception afterwards.
There are two things about wedding receptions that make them especially mystical and unpleasant. Obsessing about how many pieces of wedding cake I can get down before someone in the wedding party tackles me at the cake table. And dancing.
My favorite restaurant in Pasadena is my favorite because there...in the women's restroom...is a big red button underneath a sign that says "Do not push button." Of course, everyone pushes the button, which turns the powder room into a discotheque. Out comes a disco ball, flashing lights and Donna Summer. It fills me with unparalleled glee. So much so that I run in several times just to push the button. Mark my words...I WILL have this feature in the guest bathroom of my next home. First thing.
I also love techno music with the passion of a thousand suns. My brother (half brother for those of you who know me as an only child) and I can sit for hours at a time listening to techno. He usually has glowsticks somewhere in the house. But we've found two TV remotes can do in a pinch.
Having said that, I do not dance. DO NOT. It's like a commandment. Thou shall not kill. Thou shall not boogie. And yet, there's always that one person in the crowd. You know who you are. The schmuck who wants to pull me onto the dance floor at every wedding reception, bar mitzvah, quinceanera and party. I see you coming from across the room, cursing you under my breath with every step. I know what you're thinking. That once I get out there, I'm going to suddenly break out Lady GaGa. Don't get me wrong, I would love nothing more than to dance like Lady GaGa, complete with latex body suit. To watch her move, I'm convinced her upper body is detached from her lower body. She can probably pat her head and rub her tummy anyone under the table. Without a doubt, watching Lady Gaga is like taking visual crack...I can't turn away. And am in awe of her creativity and complete freedom from inhibition. I, on the other hand, would take a shower with my clothes on if it wasn't so messy.
So, here are my two options. A) Never gonna dance again (guilty fat has got no rhythm). Or B) Take dance lessons as part of my "rejoining society" year. And sport a latex body suit at every wedding reception from now on. I'm thinking B).